by Sam Juneau
In late February, as the last rooms were being put to bed and the last bathrooms being plumbed and spiffied, I received a call.
‘Allô?’ I answered.
‘Yes, bonjour, do you speak English?’ the caller enquired.
‘Yes.’ I was never sure if it was good or bad to reveal my identity as an American. Some people, after all, wanted a true French experience complete with French aristocrats.
‘I’m calling from California and am interested in renting your Guard’s House this summer. I have some work in Le Mans.’
After my experience with the Guard’s House the previous summer, I vowed to be more honest with the guests and lay out the pros and cons of a stay chez nous.
‘That’s great. But I must tell you, Le Mans is about fifty minutes away. It’s mostly autoroute with a good four- or five-lane motorway but it is a sizeable commute.’
‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘I like to drive and your place seems really beautiful.’
‘How long were you thinking of staying?’
‘Eight weeks. Is it available?’
I stifled a gasp and pushed forward. This was too good to be true. Early in the year and we already had a good part of the summer booked, potentially.
‘Yes, it’s early still and the house is available.’
It wasn’t a ton of money, about 4,800 euros (£3,300), but it was a start.
‘OK. Well, I’ll talk to my wife and have her call you. She has some questions.’
‘No problem. Please let us know. I do have requests for the house, though no solid bookings yet.’
‘Will do.’
I ran to find Bud. We spoke excitedly about our prospects for the summer. The work would be done soon and we were all optimism and hope. Funny how one small signal, the slightest interest in our little project, could throw us from pessimism and worry into delirium. Despite outward appearances, however, there was something inside both of us, call it perhaps a fear of success, that slightly dampened our enthusiasm. We felt, as with most things, if it seemed too good to be true, it probably was. Like a chateau for less than half a million euros. Like eight weeks’ rent out of nowhere.
Our free time was scarce in the run-up to spring. We ran here and there gathering final fittings, pieces of furniture, utensils and linens while consulting and debating with the workmen. On the odd days when we had little to do – more specifically, on the odd days when we could do nothing because stores were closed and all Frenchmen disappeared into the somnolence of frequent holidays and Sundays – we would travel around the Loire visiting chateaux and eating out. It was one of the reasons we moved to Europe and in particular France.
On such days we would load up the rickety old van with the kids and their belongings and head off for a picnic and a visit. Even in the waning days of winter, we found sunny days and a mild climate. We discovered turrets and castellations and towers and rivers and small, old villages. The variety and depth of French patrimony was more astounding than I had imagined. It was days like these that made me thankful for our choice. On these days, we would slip into the gentle flow and profound beauty of our chosen land. The worries of renovations and money and heating would fall away like leaves from a tree. The fact that there were some million leaves lying around the property from a long winter hardly dampened our spirits. There would be time to rake them up as there would be time to bend our energies to the work ahead.
It has been said that what I lack in good sense I make up for in pragmatism. I suppose buying the beast was not entirely pragmatic. In any case, the new year also brought talk of a new American venture. Amidst much sabre-rattling, rhetoric and bombast, it seemed that my country would again launch into something big – this time the invasion of Iraq.
The French papers were filled with denunciations and critiques of American imperialism and calls for patience. I knew my countrymen well; there would be no such nonsense. The French pointed out the hubris of Mr Bush and his cohorts, the need for the son to rectify the father’s failures, America’s love and thirst for oil, America’s unreflective support of Israel, Bush’s desire to be seen as a man of action after the tragedy of 9/11. Deep down, I felt sympathy with these arguments as American animosity towards the French grew and metastasised into a nasty little monster. This led to not a few arguments and heated exchanges with my friends and family back at home. In the end, though, put bluntly, this was a good opportunity to support my family financially. I wished the big event of the year could have been the Olympics or the World Cup but alas, it was a war. And wars need journalists.
With a quick check, for the thousandth time, of our bank account, I made a call to my old employer, NBC, in London. I figured they would need a hand if and when the fighting, or should I say bombing, began.
I chatted with the London deputy bureau chief, Suzette. She thought there would be a need for extra hands on deck. We agreed on a price per week and it was quickly settled. NBC would fly me to London, put me up in a hotel for the duration of my stay and pay me. Ideal. This seemed to come just at the right time – right before the summer onslaught (didn’t we wish) and towards the end of renovations. Bud was hesitant knowing she would be stuck in the chateau by herself with two screaming kids (sometimes quiet, but mostly screaming), but we needed the money.
It was by no means lost on me, the hypocrisy and desperation that led me back to my employer. This, the same employer that I had just left a year ago. Not a bad lesson for a stubborn man.
NBC’s commitment was for two months, possibly more. Just before the start of the war, I took the Eurostar to London. I arrived at the offices in Hammersmith and felt happy to work again. Sure, we had been working on the house but it wasn’t the same as being part of something larger, getting paid and having pressing deadlines and office protocols. I realised people sat in tight, grey cubicles dreaming of the life we had made for ourselves. Despite the glories and challenges of our short time in France, I had occasionally felt the isolation and boredom of the French countryside. Often I would sit and reflect on what it would be like to work in a proper, conventional job. This schizophrenia – contempt for the working, commercial world and a desire to be a part of it – defined a part of my experience at the chateau.
The office was soon busy and correspondents and producers were being sent here and there, spur of the moment and in a mad rush. Twice I went to Brussels to cover the European Union as they dilly-dallied on whether or not to put their lot in with the Yanks or not. Like the journalists who covered these massive institutions, the elected and non-elective leaders of the EU Executive Council and Parliament sat around, smoked, drank coffee and debated what they might or might not do. Then called it a day. Not bad work if you can get it. It suited me fine.
Expense accounts, decent dinners not prepared by myself, new places and people to see – it was very exciting. But as the long chain of gossip and rumour wound its way to my lowly freelance self, I started to remember why exactly I had left corporate America – the whimsical and urgent decisions, or non-decisions, on how to cover this or that, the contradictory instructions from New York, the manpower issues, the long hours. It seemed like no one was ever happy. Plenty of griping and moaning.
In that first month, the war was going so ‘damned well’, according to the Americans, that there was talk of a small expansion and veiled threats towards Iraq’s neighbour, Syria. The Syrian border was posing a problem for the US – arms shipments, refugees and terrorists were pouring through the porous line separating Syria and Iraq.
Suzette approached me one day. ‘Sam, we need you to go to Syria. Bush is making noises and we want to report on it.’
This put a slight crimp in my cosy little London–Brussels– France tour of duty. But I was excited by the prospect of going so I called Bud. We spoke about the work on the house, the comings and goings of the kids. Then I hit her with it.
‘Bud, they want me to go to Syria.’
‘Isn’t that near Iraq?’
‘Actually,
it’s next door. But I think things are calm there for the moment.’
‘Oh, Sam, I don’t know. It sounds dangerous.’
‘Well, there’s danger pay associated and it might be a nice trip.’
‘I don’t care about the money. It’s most important you get back here in one piece. London is one thing, but Syria? Can you promise me you’ll be OK?’
‘Not really, but I’m pretty sure it will be safe.’
Just then, Grim started yelling and Bud was forced to offer one parting comment.
‘I have to go Sam. It’s so hard here being alone. But you do what you think is best. And for Christ’s sake, don’t get hurt.’ I knew Bud was lonely. So was I. Because we had bitten off more than we could chew, we had no other choice but to soldier on.
With that tepid endorsement, I told NBC yes. The trip to Syria was thankfully uneventful. One day into the trip and the story was dead. President Bush had declared the Syrians to be reasonably cooperative. Tough luck for us. The journey did afford me the opportunity, however, to shop for furnishings for our bed and breakfast.
One morning into the second week of this brilliant, unplanned holiday, I went to the souk in search of rugs. I walked along cobbled streets, eating my lamb schwarma and searching for a not-too-intimidating rug shop. I rounded a corner and found my place.
I spoke in English and told the owner I was looking for rugs. He invited me in and sat for half an hour chatting and drinking tea. Very French, these Syrians. Transactions would only be oiled by sufficient social interaction.
The owner, a tall, handsome man with light eyes and a perfectly groomed moustache, ordered his minions to bring rugs. So they came by the dozens. Every so often I would say yes and these would be put aside. I haggled over each and every rug and in the end haggled some more. I ended up buying 17 rugs for the equivalent of 2,000 euros, or £1,400. When I had bought rugs in France, a single four-by-three-metre rug was at least the same price and sometimes much more. The owner ordered a worker bee off to buy me two large suitcases and we carefully packed the goods away.
‘Are you sure I can get these out of the country with no problem? Are there any tariffs or special forms I need?’ I enquired after I’d paid my money.
‘Everything will be fine, my friend. May I drive you to your hotel?’
Before my departure, I visited our fixer, a man named Thabet. He was a Syrian who knew how to get things done. We chatted idly about the trip and thanked one another for pleasant company. I mentioned in passing that I had bought a load of rugs and I planned to furnish my bed and breakfast with them.
He looked startled.
‘Are they old rugs?’ he asked.
‘Yes, mostly, I think sixty to a hundred years old.’
‘Oh, no. You can’t take these out of the country. There is a law about exporting antiques from Syria. There will be great fines and possible prison time.’
I begged him for a solution. We sat for coffee and mulled over my predicament. The rug store owner had seemed so nice. Thabet’s face brightened after about 30 minutes and three cups of the strongest coffee on earth.
‘I will send my man, Mohammed, with you. He will take you to Lebanon and you can fly out of there. But you may have to bribe the border guards.’
Not quite the solution I was expecting. The idea of bribery and border guards and Syrian prison sent shivers up my spine. We worked out the plan in detail. I would leave the next day. That night I spoke to Bud and told her of my rug adventure, omitting only the fact that I had to cross into Lebanon with contraband.
The next morning, a van showed up with Mohammed driving and a journalist colleague in tow. We packed the truck full of equipment, placing the rug bags on the bottom according to Mohammed’s instructions. He thought the border guards might be too lazy to unload all of the equipment.
It was only a few pleasant hours to the border. Finally, we arrived at a standard looking border crossing complete with broken-down cars and long lines of people passing to and fro, declaring and not declaring, arguing and being waved through depending on the whim of the guards.
Mohammed told us to wait in the car. He asked for 150 euros, just in case. I could feel cold beads of sweat popping up on my forehead. What was I thinking? Was a well-appointed chateau worth this stress? I was losing my nerve.
We grabbed a grilled chicken sandwich from a nearby stand while Mohammed chatted and drank coffee with the border guards. After about two hours, Mohammed came towards the van.
‘The major will come to inspect the van. Remain calm and be polite.’
My hands started to shake. If ever I would lose control of my bodily functions, now might be it. Mohammed entered the border office and came back leading the major to our van.
‘Hello. How are you today?’ he greeted us with a sly smile.
‘We are very good. Hot day, isn’t it?’ What else could I say? Possibly, ‘Please, sir, I don’t want to go to prison – take the rugs, please!’
The major was a portly man with a heavy beard and moustache. He was trailed by a young man with a machine gun and a dopey smile. His top four buttons were open on his uniform and one shirt-tail dangled sloppily in front of his large belly. He stood with us outside the van and enquired about our visit.
I told him it was lovely and I would like to bring my family back. This was true but did sound a little sycophantic. We spoke for a long time, the major testing his English and making jokes about America. We shared cigarettes and stood in the noonday sun.
After about 45 minutes, he shook our hands and wished us a good trip. We were through. The price: 150 bucks and much figurative and literal sweating. The next day I flew from Beirut to Paris with 17 rugs. Another problem solved.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Debut
I was gone almost two months, with a short visit home in the middle. Within days of my return to France, all hell was breaking loose. Bud had gone through a tough time alone with the two kids, workmen and enquiries. Scarcely a booking in sight, but plenty of calls.
‘You know that family that wants to book for eight weeks this summer?’ Bud started, as soon as I’d set foot through the door. ‘The wife has called me no fewer than fifteen times. She wants to know if we have a pool, where the nearest grocery store is, do we have bikes… on and on and on. You really have to call her.’ That was fine. Bud and I had split the duties – her primary responsibility was the children and the house and mine was the business. Or lack of it.
‘OK, OK, I just got back. I will call her.’
‘Also, Mocques wants to talk to you about the last two bathrooms. I told him to go ahead and start. He wants to put a third hot water heater on the second floor to feed the two bedrooms in the middle of the house.’
‘Sounds good. What’s the problem?’
‘Well, he’s already started chipping out the exterior back wall and is going to dig a trench the length of the house to join up with the septic tank. It will take a lot of work and time. He needs your help.’
I scurried around the back of the house where Mocques was working away with hammer and chisel. He was gouging a huge hole into the back wall of the house and carving his way down from the first floor to ground level. No sledgehammer, just his simple tools and two bare hands. Debris and rocks and the guts of the wall lay strewn for yards around the terrace. We spoke about what needed to be done. It was decided I would hire a pelleteuse, a digger, to run the trench 30 metres to a large pipe which would then join up to the septic tank. I felt confident in my skills as a digger. How hard could it be? I gazed up at the deep crevice. How in the world would we ever fill that in?
I made the trip to a large hardware services store in Angers and arranged the delivery of the digger at 60 euros for the day.
The next morning the digger showed up. I mounted the little yellow bull and played with the controls as Mocques smiled at my shenanigans. He was covered in dust and small stones. Pieces of rock nestled in his eyebrows and his hair was now entirely white with
dust.
Mocques instructed me as if I were a child. I would start by the main pipe and work my way backwards to his holes in the middle. The trench must form a pente, or slope, from the bathroom drainage pipes to the big connector pipe.
I started off well, digging my hole precisely and neatly laying the refuse to the side for future removal. Mocques interjected here and there, corrected my line, made sure I was digging deep enough. By midday, I broke for lunch. Mocques went home for a quick break with his family.
Bud and I sat at the wooden table just behind the kitchen and soaked up the noonday sun. As usual, we satisfied ourselves with juicy tomatoes, olive oil and a local goats’ cheese with a few glasses of wine.
‘I think these Guard’s House people might be a nightmare. It makes me wonder if all of our guests are going to be so demanding,’ Bud commented.
‘I’m just grateful we have a good solid booking like that.’
‘How are the B&B bookings?’
‘Same as last week. One week in June booked by that German couple and some Spaniards at the end of the summer. That’s it for now. But we needn’t worry. It’s only late April.’ On the road around the world, I had kept close track of all enquiries and correspondence via the Internet.
We worked out that we needed about 500 nights at an average of 125 euros (£86) per night plus 15 weeks in the Guard’s House to break even. That totalled about 70,000 euros (£48,000) for the year. This would cover most of the heating, house insurance, linens, basically almost all the costs of running the estate, but did not include our food and new shoes from time to time for the babies. So far, we had eight weeks booked in the Guard’s House and barely 14 nights in the chateau. The season was fast approaching.